Sordid Bit of Business
by ALC Punk
Summary: Next segment in the Warped Tapestry universe (Wanting the Dream, etc). Sam Carter takes the fight out into the streets, so to speak. Bad things happen. R. Very R.


Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
Rating: R. Sex. Violence. Nastiness. A lot of nastiness. Torture, even. Turn back now if this might offend you.  
  
Notes: Fourth in the series (I've begun calling it Warped Tapestry, which is a damned cliche, but I'll live), follows 'Thoughts of Marianne'. The first two are 'Lovefool' and 'Wanting the Dream'.   
  
Further note: I don't hate Pete Shanahan, for those who are going to point and yell. I kind of vaguely like the guy. This is just one possibility, AND, could easily be a lie... Look at the source, for unsnakey-headed gods' sakes!  
  
Further further note: I apologize if the tense isn't completely right. I'm going to whack at it later, but it's being difficult and shifty right now.   
  
Thanks to everyone who's said kind things about previous installments. And, no, it so ain't over yet...  
  
Sordid Bit of Business  
  
by Ana Lyssie Cotton  
  
Hooker red nails, fishnets and tiny little stiletto heels, black leather mini-skirt that shows a glorious length of leg (Janet once joked her legs went to her arm pits), tiny golden bra under a purple spider-web top. If top could be applied to what could easily make a gnat's handkerchief. One fluff or two through her hair (cut perfectly so it tumbles so artfully. "I've just gotten out of bed, boys."), careful lipstick pout (in fuck-me red to complement the nails), rouge, and that kohl that Daniel claims makes her eyes so damned big he could drown in them.  
  
Tiny sexy kitten grin at herself one last time in the mirror, and she's ready to go.  
  
-=-  
  
"Hey, baby."  
  
The man in front of her is all glitz and glamour, flashing his hundred-watt smile while his cold grey eyes assess everything for market value. He nods. The Armani suit was probably special-ordered, and that's not even counting the careful cutting job on his hand-made Italian leather soles, or the procedures that put his hairs back on his head (or the little nipping and tucking so he looks like he did forty years ago).  
  
"You'll do."  
  
She knows how this game is played, now. Knows the exact swagger to slide into her legs as she moves towards him. Understands exactly the right angle to tilt her head so her eyes smoulder. Retreats into some tiny part of her brain when she's close enough to touch. "Hey."  
  
It's a damned dangerous game she plays. But it's all she's got, for now. Daniel might object, but she knows these little forays into bedrooms cause just enough of a stir up there to keep them busy trying to find her. And if they're busy on her, they're not busy on Jack. And that's a sacrifice she has always been willing to make. So she makes the appropriate responses, secures her fee.  
  
This man wouldn't recognize her, but the message she'll leave for him will leave no doubt as to who she was.  
  
He's the secretary to one of the senators who put SG-1 up for devilhood (although at least one of her sources says he's a bit deeper in the organization. Considering his clothing and tastes, he has to be one of those left from the NID ring that nearly took them down). By morning, pictures of this night's work will populate the internet (mini digital cameras are a girl's best friend). The administration will have to explain how one of their most trusted colleagues was seen screwing a member of the team which has been so reviled.  
  
She doesn't doubt that it will have little impact, in the long run. But it's a thorn in their side, and it's all she has, right now.  
  
As much as she might consider crashing SGC systems, the Pentagon's, or causing a hundred other security breaches that could slow them down, she saves that option. Because even if Earth has forsaken her, she can't risk that the System Lords won't take advantage while she's getting her petty revenge.  
  
Of course, if she did, it would prove that she was a liability to Earth, in truth rather than innuendo, rumor and lie.  
  
And Jack wouldn't approve. It always comes back to him, of course. She could have left this planet and washed her hands of all of this, except that he instilled something in her. Eight years ago, nearly. No one gets left behind. Even if you die where you stand, your guts spilling into the sand, you make that effort. You get that person out. And she always has. She spent three sleepless months making a god-damned particle accelerator to get him back from Edora. She spent a month trying to decipher the doorway, before luck showed her that it was the moon above they wanted.  
  
But this isn't about him anymore, anyway. Maybe it never has been. And maybe she's lying like a dog to herself. It doesn't matter.  
  
-==-  
  
Later, when he's sliding into her (nameless man, unremarkable face, except that it will plaster the internet come morning) -- and she's damned glad she packed the lubricated condoms, because the hatred coursing through her veins refuses to allow anything other than a dry heat below. And she so has to keep in mind why she's doing this. And Pete. She should be able to do what she did with Pete. I can fake it with the best of them, except she's so fucking tired of it. How many men is this, now? Has she even kept track -- and she's arching up into him, moaning and panting, muttering coarse words that the girls on the street have taught her over the last eight months. And, dear GOD he really has no clue how bad he is in bed. No foreplay, no lead-up, just, bed, erection, fucking.  
  
She doesn't want to think about the last time a man was simply there for her. Gentle and loving and kind (and not even Pete, a voice whispers).  
  
But she's learned how to stifle these thoughts, and so she concentrates on the moment. On making the man above her believe he's pleasuring her, of making him come loud enough to growl, of not flinching when he collapses on her and his cock slides out, sticky with his juices and the lubricant from the condom.  
  
He falls asleep quickly, his heavy breathing pushing against her own lungs. And she eventually shoves him to one side and escapes the clutching grasp of his hands.  
  
Once out of the bed, she deals with the condom, suddenly glad Janet had insisted on the shot for all women going off-world. She plans never to use condoms with any lover she actually wants. And she shies away from considering just who that person could be. He's an ephemeral dream on the tip of her mind.  
  
Staggering to the window, she stares out at the city spread below her, a sense of dislocation touching her. The lights shine up, gold and green and red and pink, brilliant against the backdrop of busy city streets and sleeping suburban houses. And she considers how many of the people down there still don't believe in everything she's done for the last eight years. Not that the last year has been at all exemplary. But it had been good, once. She had... She cuts off the thought and leans her head against the glass, obscurely enjoying the thrill of the cold against her forehead.  
  
This is what Jack feels, every day. And she again hopes he has no sense of the passage of time.  
  
For just a moment, every barrier is down, every emotion is crackling at her surface. She can shift, and her facets will shine brilliant fractured light on the world around her. Or she can be crushed, and eventually shine harder.  
  
It's a horrible metaphor.  
  
She lives with it everyday, knowing that she is drifting further and further from who she was. Who she thought she should be towards... What? Some kind of sainted whore? And 42nd street has always been vaguely appealing after a particularly bad nightmare.  
  
But Daniel won't let her go completely.  
  
And she can't let herself go, forever. Not if she wants to survive. Not if she wants her ultimate goal accomplished.  
  
Too late, she sees the reflection of a man behind her. The first blow catches her before she can duck, spinning her around and she slams back into the glass of the window with her head. A second blow cracks the glass from the force of impact, and she could calculate the angles and momentum and exactly how much energy was released. But doesn't, because this is here and now and real and deadly.  
  
Shrugging off the disorientation, she comes up fighting, her hands colliding with the man--men. Two, three, and she is not letting them take her down. Not like this, damnit.  
  
Dimly, she notices that the man in the bed is still sleeping.  
  
Teeth and nails and feet, and even naked and caught unaware she is a formidabble enemy. But then, she knows that if they take her, she will never see this thing through.  
  
So she fights dirty, uses every trick she's ever known. Jack taught her some, Makepeace, Griff, Teal'c taught her others. They taught her so that if she was ever in a situation like this--and there's a laugh. None of them would ever see her in a situation quite like this. Naked, fighting for her life. Possibly her sanity.  
  
It takes five of them to knock her down and hold her. And once there, she still rolls and bites and tries to worm away.  
  
But they're good, as good as she is, and they're all much heavier. Her ribs ache with blows and the lack of room to expand properly. Spots dance in front of her eyes, and then one of them finally stops playing.  
  
The world goes black as he slams her head into the carpet. Force calculations, again.  
  
-==-  
  
They hadn't bothered with clothing her, they'd just wrapped her in tape in some insane parody of bondage gear (and there was a night she was never telling anyone about, though Daniel's mouth had tightened when he saw the marks on her wrists. Good thing he never saw her back), and simply dragged her along. With her mouth covered and her hands and feet completely immoblized, she stood no chance. She still twisted and pulled and bucked every chance she got. Until they'd dropped her twice. And the third time she was rolled down the stairs.  
  
"Major." The hand in her hair almost hurt as much as the rest of her, and she wonders if the roots will pull out and snap like stalks of celery. "I only need you alive. Not in one piece."  
  
The implications were clear, and so she stops. For now. Because she has to stay whole, otherwise there will be no chance of escape. And she would NOT think like that, she snaps at herself fiercely. Jack wouldn't have let her be pessimistic. But he wasn't here. So, fuck him. He wasn't here, but she was, and she had to survive this night and get the hell out. Or it would all be in vain.  
  
One of them slams a fist into her jaw, and from the cracking sound and the pain, she figures it's dislocated before everything fades to black again.  
  
It's minutes later that she wakes in a cell. Minutes or hours, and she so hopes it's not days. That could be really embarrassing. But everything aches so much, so it has to be merely hours. Her left eye is almost swelled shut and her jaw aches and, yep, that's the feeling of a dislocated joint. Her left knee feels slightly odd, too. The catalogue continues as she wakes more, left arm has a bruise, right wrist is probably sprained (that had happened on the stairs), concussion, and her hair is flopping in her eyes (time for a haircut, Major).  
  
They began pulling the duct tape off, and she almost lets a whimper out when it pulls patches of skin with it. More scratches, now, and a gummy sticky feeling that might never go away. And she's still sticky with his sweat and semen. Her stomach roils for a moment, but she fights down the nausea. Definitely a concussion.  
  
Eventually, they have her arms free and stop. Too drained to even try to fight she lays there passively as they put manacles on her wrists. Then they hoist her up and lock the manacles to a bar hanging from the ceiling. With a few cranks on a lever by the door she's dangling. And her shoulders begin to ache in earnest and she tries to reach her toes to the floor to relieve some of the pressure. Her right wrist gives a few intermittant twinges, and, yep, her left knee is probably sprained. Hoping it wasn't dislocated, she puts all her weight on her right foot, shoving the toes into the unforgiving concrete.  
  
A shove in the small of her back sends her swinging, and she fights back the expected cry of pain. She refuses to show weakness. Refuses to scream. Not yet.  
  
She isn't sure if she's here to tell them things or simply because they're tired of playing her game. Perhaps she's here as a prisoner of war, to be given over to the highest bidder. Pity Anubis isn't still around, he'd pay good for her brain. Maybe Ba'al wants it, or Yu (if he hasn't gone totally insane). It doesn't matter, in the end. They only need her brain intact, not the rest of her.  
  
And so it isn't a surprise when there's another shove, and then something metallic slams into her side. Oof. Cracked rib. Crack. And another. Ow. And another.  
  
By the time she starts screaming they've definitely dislocated the left knee, her right shoulder is half out of the socket and the liquid streaming down her back isn't sweat.  
  
They're laughing, by now. Mocking sounds that might once have broken her, might once have killed her. But that was eight years ago, and she didn't know then what she knows now. She hadn't survived dying more times than anyone should have to count to be brought low by rough government thugs who would let the world rot around them while they plundered Valhalla.  
  
Daniel would have liked that reference, and she remembers things he's taught her over the years--curses and rude comments when they were both half-drunk, and she yells at them in goa'uld, forgetting her jaw. The pain snaps her back to reality.  
  
None of the injuries could kill her alone or together. They're very careful about that. It helps that the Tau'ri have never had a sarcophagus, so they have to be subtler (or more brutal) when it comes to torture. They can't skewer her with knifes and acid, but they can shatter bones and leave her a cripple. She will survive it.  
  
She has to.  
  
-==-  
  
Coming to, she wonders how long she's been out. And kind of hopes it's been long enough that Daniel's figured out she's in danger. They left her alone, hanging from the ceiling. And everything aches a hell of a lot. But the physical torture has to be over for now. If they need her in one piece.  
  
They have to be a little more careful, because they have to put the pieces back together by hand and not magic.  
  
A creaking sound precludes the door swinging inwards, and she refuses to raise her head and acknowledge her captors.   
  
"Oh, come now, Major Carter." She stares, wondering if she should be surprised to find Colonel Samuels standing in front of her, his eyes completely guilleless. A huff escapes him when she continues to refuse to respond. "Not even a 'What the hell are you doing here, Samuels?'. Major Carter, I'm hurt."  
  
"Sparky." A moment of satisfaction as his eyes narrow at her use of O'Neill's nickname for him. "You've come down in the world."  
  
"You could say that. But you've fallen a hell of a lot farther, Major." A smirk touches his lips. "Whoring yourself to anything with money, allowing men to beat you just to feel a little pleasure. What happened, Major, was O'Neill just that bad in bed?"  
  
A snicker escapes her. "Asking how much I'd charge you?" She tilts her head and fights both dizziness and pain to do so as she eyes him assessingly. "It might be extra. I'd need compensation for the slime I'd be washing off."  
  
"Major Samantha Carter," His voice was amused, as if he knew a hundred things she didn't. And he probably does. He certainly knows what's going to happen to her here--if she's going to live or die screaming. Or maybe that selling to the highest bidder isn't speculation. "There have always been rumours about you two. Oh, mostly they think it's highly romantic. Putting aside your personal feelings for the sake of the planet." Now he's mocking her.  
  
He is so off-base, she's surprised she's not laughing in his face.   
  
"Still," he continues, "with that little bit of instability, is it any wonder the vaunted SG-1 fell to helping the enemy against their beloved planet? After all, one of them's a Jaffa, one of them's been dead for a year, and the two Air Force officers..." He let his voice trail off suggestively.  
  
When she still doesn't answer him with more than the scorn in her eyes, he straightens, "Or is there a defence in there? Colonel O'Neill, bereft because the woman he loves has scorned him for another man..."  
  
The laugh escapes this time, and dear GOD it hurts. Every muscle and bone protests as she sets herself swinging, and there's red edging her vision again.  
  
Samuels almost giggles.   
  
"You're wrong, you know."   
  
"I am never wrong, Major."  
  
"I did love Pete Shanahan."  
  
Samuels looks like she's just handed him the key to every piece of goa'uld technology he could ever want. And his eyes are now black with derision. "You know, Shanahan was a good man. A good plant. He used to call me up and tell me how he liked fucking you. 'One of the perks of the job,' he'd say. 'Those tits, that ass, and she knows how to use her tongue just right'."   
  
The one blow she wasn't expecting. And she should have been. Oh, dear, god... "You're lying."  
  
"Cling to that thought all you want, Major." He leans in, still smirking. "Pete Shanahan had you, hook, line and sinker."  
  
Yes. Maybe. No. Shit. It doesn't matter, it doesn't. Because if he focusses on Pete, he ignores Jack. And Daniel. "It can't be true."  
  
"Oh, but it can. Would you like me to bring in some of his colleagues? They could tell you some fun little anecdotes about how you talk in your sleep and the way you scream when you come. amd--"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
It was going to hurt in a moment. Really hurt. Because Samuels' hand was pushing her into swinging again, and his words were battering elsewhere. And she closes her eyes, fights the sickness roiling in her gut. Because there are no showers here, cold or otherwise, and she will. not. give him this satisfaction.  
  
"Major Samantha Carter, failed saviour of humanity, now fallen woman and whore to the stars." A hand jerks her to a stop and the cessation of movement causes a small whimper to escape her lips. "Oh, we're going to have such fun together."  
  
Gritting her teeth, she opens her eyes again, glaring as hard as she can. He seems to settle, rocking back on his heels a bit. "Shall I start with the details of your first night? I believe you were wearing a dress and fuck-me sandals. Pete nearly laughed his ass off telling us that. Of course, he said he liked that you were so voracious you let him fuck you against the wall in your entry-way."  
  
Ah, there. There's the pain and ragged anger buried underneath it. Righteous indignation and raw nerves. And he's got no fucking clue what would really work, does he?  
  
She's going to keep it that way.   
  
Keep him talking about Pete Shanahan. Because she has to, because she can't let them understand about her and Jack. Because they'd get him. And she can't let them get Jack because that would steal the last piece of a soul she's not sure she has anymore.  
  
But it's going to be a long time until Daniel rescues her. And so she'll have to think of other things to distract them. Maybe sacrifice Janet and Daniel and Teal'c and Bra'tac and Rya'c and her thoughts twist in upon themselves as more and more blows land on her body again. This time, she's too drained and tired to scream, only pitiful whimpers leaving her throat.  
  
As the darkness chases her away again, she feels a vague satisfaction.   
  
They can't break her. She's already broken.  
  
-finis- 


End file.
